


since i have no words (i gave him all my tenderness)

by brucespringsteen



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Body Worship, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Consentacles, Enthusiastic Consent, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Uses His Words, M/M, Marathon Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Sex Magic, Sounding, Stomach Bulge, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:15:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28186746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brucespringsteen/pseuds/brucespringsteen
Summary: “Tell me,” Jaskier begins conversationally, “have you ever fucked a mage, Geralt?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 31
Kudos: 386





	since i have no words (i gave him all my tenderness)

**Author's Note:**

> please don't perceive me, this is my first (and only) time ever writing tentacles and i tried so desperately to make it as deliciously filthy as i like but i may have shoveled in more emotions than need be. so. wet at both ends, as they say.

The smell of chamomile and summer flowers tickle Geralt’s nose just a moment before there’s a warm body sliding into his space, pressing against him. Beneath the chamomile and flowers is a faint scent of magic—dusty, ancient, and old, older than even him.

Huh.

Geralt rearranges himself on the bench, putting as much distance between him and this sudden acquaintance as he can. “Witch,” he says beneath his breath, low and deep. As far as he can tell, the citizens of this backwater town don’t know that a very powerful, very old witch lives among them; he is not one to change that. What isn’t broken doesn’t need to be fixed, as Ciri says.

“Not quite, but it is a step up from bitch, I suppose,” he says with a sickly soft, deeply delicate voice that feels almost like balm to his senses. “I’m Jaskier.”

“The lutist,” Geralt observes, taking a sip of his ale before turning to the man next to him. Jaskier’s eyes are blue, like the color of a field of cornflowers, and his smile is bright, a strange and frightening thing. “I thought you were a bard.”

Jaskier waves at someone off to the side, signaling for a drink. “I am, among other things. Most refer to me as a witch, but that’s not quite it.” He turns back to Geralt. He isn’t much smaller than Geralt, really; perhaps a bit slimmer, a bit shorter, but he takes up nearly the same amount of space—which is suddenly important, pressed against one another on this small bench as they both are. It sticks in the back of his mind like hot taffy candy. “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?”

“You know who I am.”

Jaskier puts his elbow on the chipped table and lays his chin on his hand. He looks at Geralt like he hung the moon in the sky for him, with an abandoned adoration that he has only ever seen on Ciri’s face. “Pretend I don’t,” he says, smiling, as if he has all the time in the world to make nice with a man who has a well-known, less than dazzling past.

Geralt blinks once. “I’m a witcher,” he answers. “Geralt.”

He doesn’t quite know why he’s indulging Jaskier. He can’t be defined as nice or accommodating, unless it’s his daughter asking something of him—which tickles Yennefer and his brothers to no end, seeing him go absolutely soft for Ciri, catering to her every need even when she’s spending a season with her self-righteous grandmother and he’s tucked in a room that can be classified as a glorified coat closet. But there’s something about Jaskier, something so _otherworldly_ that intrigues Geralt entirely.

“Beautiful,” Jaskier breathes. His face stays open and easily readable; his heartbeat doesn’t change, a monotonous thud-thud-thud, so he isn’t lying. Geralt’s not sure how he feels about that. Should he be flattered that this old witch is flirting with him openly or should he be slightly worried because the only attention he tends to draw from mages is often negative? “May I buy you dinner?”

“I’ve already eaten.”

“I would like to buy you another plate,” Jaskier persists. “We both know that those of your profession need as much nutrients as they can get.”

Astonishingly, Geralt relents, nodding, and Jaskier beams and scoots off the bench, darting toward the bar. He sits on a stool in front of tall, busty woman; Geralt can hear what is being said but he pays no mind to the words spoken and, instead, keeps his eyes on Jaskier.

Jaskier is odd. Mere moments of knowing one another and Geralt has already found himself at that conclusion. He smells like centuries old magic, like something from deep within the earth, brought to the surface before Geralt was even born; his smiles come easy, though, as if he’s unburdened and free of the wrath of humans and the prejudice their hatred often brings down upon the heads of those who are different.

Against his better judgement, though, Geralt is curious. Fascinated and enchanted. There is something about Jaskier, a pull that is drawing Geralt in, that he can’t fight against, so abrupt in its tether to his heart that it feels only right to do what Jaskier says.

Maybe he’s weak. Maybe the idea of being in the presence of someone other than his family has left him wanting, and he’ll take anything he can get in the form of genuine affection, regardless of who it’s from.

Jaskier hurries back with a plate full of cooked meat and a bowl of steaming stew. He takes the same seat he vacated, shoulder to shoulder with Geralt, and puts the food in front of Geralt and pushes it close.

Geralt grabs the utensil and digs in to the stew. The taste is nice in his mouth, sating the hunger that tends to always lurk in the pit of his gut when he’s on the path, and he takes another bite. And another, just after. And then a sip of his ale to wash it down, and then two more bites before he hears Jaskier’s quiet laughter, muffled beneath the back the hand he has pressed to his mouth, and he realizes that, right, he’s got an unidentified magical being doting on him, _staring_ at him. 

He bristles and squares his shoulders, taking up as much room as he can, trying to seem impossibly larger than he really is. “Is your lute bewitched?” he asks, gruffly, only to have the attention taken off him. 

“No,” Jaskier answers easily, gently, and puts his elbow on the table again in order to prop his face so he can look at Geralt once more. “Though it may seem like it, it’s my singing.”

“It’s soothing,” Geralt says, and he is absolutely mortified. Jaskier makes a surprised noise, and Geralt wishes he could blush so the heat in his face would have an outlet. “Like—pressing a bruise, feeling the relief that comes after you take your finger away.”

He is appalled at his admission. He takes another successive three spoonfuls of stew to quiet himself down.

After a moment, Jaskier breathes a light laugh and says, “Well, I’ve never heard that before.”

Geralt grimaces, pained. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier gasps. “Don’t be,” he says, reaching out with his hand and placing it on Geralt’s shoulder. Even through the several layers between flesh on flesh, Geralt can feel his skin turn warm beneath Jaskier’s too-comfortable, too-casual touch. He feels held down, grounded, even though he isn’t. He’s larger, and he can break free at any time. But. “I love that you find it soothing.”

Geralt wishes so desperately, then, that he were good with words so he may make a joke, yield a laugh, and break the heavy, oppressive tension that has suddenly blanketed the two of them, cocooning them in a bubble all their own away from everyone. Fact is, though, all his attention is focused on the gentle, easy touch of Jaskier’s hand on his arm. Never before has anything or anyone grabbed all of his attention before.

“Tell me,” Jaskier begins conversationally, “have you ever fucked a mage, Geralt?”

Geralt thinks of Yennefer, of the last time the two of them fell into bed with one another. It was years ago, just before he introduced her to Ciri; afterward, it was decided that they would work apart better than they would together, regardless of the mind-blowingly great sex they had.

It was good. It was great. Nobody knows how to fuck like a mage.

“Not for a while,” Geralt answers, truthfully. He turns, as much as he can, and faces Jaskier. “Are you offering?”

“Maybe,” Jaskier replies. He trails his hand down Geralt’s bicep, along his forearm; he encircles Geralt’s wrist and squeezes hard, once, before loosening his grip and finding Geralt’s fingers. He interlaces their fingers as if he isn’t afraid of anything, and Geralt isn’t sure if that’s the most idiotic thing or if it’s the hottest thing. “Are you going to accept?”

He takes a sip of his ale with the hand that isn’t caught in Jaskier’s, feigning consideration. He’s already made up his mind, truly, did even before Jaskier posed the question. The prospect of getting over or under another witch is one that has his cock twitching in his breeches. “It’ll save coin on a whorehouse.”

“Is that a yes?”

Geralt offers Jaskier a small, crooked grin. “What do you think, Jaskier?”

Jaskier smiles. “Finish your food, and then we’ll go to my home,” he says, and Geralt does as he’s told, hurrying through his second meal and pretending that he isn’t stiflingly aware of his fingers locked with Jaskier’s.

*

The walk to Jaskier’s home is swift and electric. His hand is held between both of Jaskier’s, who’s curled himself around Geralt’s arm and shoved himself even further into Geralt’s space; he talks aimlessly, telling an abridged history of the town and how he came to be the mage, for lack of a better term. He talks of the people and their kindness toward him, their easy acceptance; Geralt thinks that’s rather peculiar, a town so far removed from any courts and nobility, made entirely of farmers and workers, whose fingers are calloused and whose skin is crisscrossed with nearly as many scars as a witcher’s, treating a magical being with unknown origin such as Jaskier well.

But, then again, perhaps that’s why they’re so kind. Being estranged from the influence of the crown and the money that nobility throws around to intimidate others into becoming mindless followers has surely allowed for this town to formulate their own way of thinking.

Once inside Jaskier’s warm home, Geralt is ushered into a large, sweet-smelling room that has a circular glass window on the wall, allowing a look outside. The windowsill is covered in plants, ivy crawling up the panes and reaching for the sun that is beginning to dip below the horizon, drenching the sky in vibrant colors of molten orange and fiery pink and golden yellow.

He hopes, suddenly, that Ciri is looking at the sunset, too, and finding the brightest star like he told her when she was younger, toddling around on chubby legs from his arms to her birth parents to her vicious grandmother, struck absolutely in awe at her granddaughter. He hopes that she remembers what he told her—that he will be looking at the star, too, and that it’s the love he has for her, twinkling brighter than all the other surrounding stars.

With a flick of his wrist, Jaskier reaffirms Geralt’s attention and lights the candelabras placed about the room in a loose pattern. There are shelves balanced on the walls, holding vials of colorful liquids and dried salts and sudsy concoctions; there is a messy stack of books in one corner, with pages unmarred from the mugginess, and a pile of folded cloths on the other side. In the center of the room, elevated on top of a platform with steps leading up on every side, sits a great wooden tub with steam coming from the water held inside.

“A bath?” Geralt laughs, half-humorless. He walks up the steps, dips his hand in the misty water, and hums. “It’s hot.”

Jaskier is behind him, standing on his tiptoes to hook his chin over Geralt’s shoulder. He splays his hands on Geralt’s back, tangling his fingers in the loose fabric of Geralt’s shirt and scratching the flesh. It feels like a brand, like a claiming, calming touch that unsettles Geralt. He is so captivated, so enamored—where has Jaskier been all his life and why now, of all the years before and all the years he has left, have they finally met? “Food is better cooked before consumption, isn’t it?”

“Idiot.”

Jaskier laughs. “Yes, well.” He pulls himself away and puts a firm pat on Geralt’s ass, gripping just this side of possessive, before darting down the steps and toward one of the many shelves with vials. “Strip down and get in while I gather some salts and oils and soaps.”

Geralt does as he’s told, which is fleetingly surprising before he realizes that he is as dangerous naked as he is clothed. Besides, Jaskier’s not given him any reason to assume that there is malicious intent behind his pre-fuck pampering. He smells—he smells honey-sweet, like he’s made of gold.

He hurries to tug off his shirt and strip from his leather pants; he’s left in his smallclothes, but those come off quickly, as well, and he’s in the middle of folding them at the foot of the tub when a wisp of sunny yellow magic snakes around his legs, twirling up his legs and caressing his calves, like a lover’s touch, before snatching his clothing and moving them to the side.

Furrowing his brows, he climbs into the tub and slowly, kindly lowers himself into the water. He settles against the back and spreads his arms; he draws his legs up to his chest and allows his knees to fall open as the hot water soothes his muscles almost immediately, like magic.

He tips his head back and shuts his eyes and sighs, scenting the air. There’s so much going on, but it’s subtle, kind of, like having a filter over his senses to lessen the impact and overstimulation. He isn’t sure if this is purposefully done for him or something uniquely Jaskier, but he finds that it doesn’t matter because he appreciates it regardless.

“Is the temperature good?”

Geralt opens his eyes and lolls his head to the side. “It’s perfect,” he says, which may be a little too much, especially for him, but he can’t find it in him to care. At this angle, he can see just how broad Jaskier truly is; his physique sets something on fire inside of Geralt and his cock twitches beneath the water, more than a little interested in the apparent competency of this unknown man. “Are you going to wash me?”

“Of course,” Jaskier answers, pilfering among his many shelves. “I want you to be relaxed.”

“Relaxed,” Geralt repeats, deadpan. He moves one hand beneath the water and fists his half-hard cock, gripping the base and tugging up, once, before letting go. That’s for Jaskier, not him.

“Yes.” Jaskier gives him a large smile as he makes his way toward the tub. “It’s going to be intense.”

Geralt hums, watching Jaskier dump the smelling salts into the bath; yellow magic twirls in the water, mixing the particles and tickling his skin. It smells almost like flowers. “Is it?”

“Deliciously so, I hope,” Jaskier promises, kneeling behind Geralt, just to the side of his left shoulder. “I’m going to wash you now, my dear.”

Geralt nods, and Jaskier begins to work.

His magic, the same color as the sun, forms a small shield over Geralt’s eyes, protecting them from the water that’s dumped over his side. Soap is massaged into his hair first, and it smells of honeysuckle and vanilla, and then Jaskier lathers a rag and brushes it along every surface of Geralt he can reach, relying on his magic to scrub the places he can’t. The soap is washed out of his hair, slowly; a fine-toothed comb made from bone is used to suffuse his hair with oil that smells of roses.

Jaskier hums throughout his ministrations, bits and pieces of songs that Geralt recalls through his travels. Some of them are old, some of them are new; a few he recognizes as having heard as renditions at Kaer Morhen as a child, from the older witchers who helped to train him. The songs were old then, and they are ancient now.

Briefly, he wonders how old Jaskier is, where he gathered his experience, and why—why he wishes to treat Geralt so kindly, as if he is a peasant worshipping a god in a temple and begging for a miracle. He wonders if this is standard treatment or if this is for him, and then he wonders what that means for himself and why he cares so terribly to know if Jaskier’s affections for him are true or are specific criterion he delivers to all those he beds.

He shouldn’t care so much to know the answer.

Jaskier ushers him from the tub, offering a hand in guiding Geralt down the stairs. He pretends he doesn’t need the assistance, but his legs tremble and he nearly stumbles; Jaskier chuckles and wraps his arm around Geralt’s waist and leads him out of the steaming room, toward another that is down the corridor.

Jaskier’s clothing is becoming drenched, but Geralt doesn’t think that matters much. He’ll be stripping Jaskier soon enough.

Jaskier’s bedroom is saturated in his scent of dust and ancient magic. There’s a large bed in the center, piled high with blankets and furs; a canopy of red silk surrounds it, creating a sort of cave for rest. There is a table lined with perfumes and oils, and the wardrobe in the corner is open and messy, with gowns and tunics and doublets of all colors tossed here and there. Windows line three of the four walls, with curtains of navy that are drawn, allowing in the bone-white moonlight.

One mirror sits alone, crooked as it rests on the wall. It’s magicked, of course, and sees everything no matter the angle; Geralt takes one glance at it and sees himself, bare and dripping, held against Jaskier’s body, and then doesn’t look at it again.

Jaskier leaves Geralt standing by himself, foraging through a mound of cloth on a chair and returning with a towel that he uses to dry Geralt with. He starts at Geralt’s feet, nudging Geralt’s knees apart, and makes his way up one and then the other; he pays special attention to the sensitive, enlivened skin at the junction of thigh and groin, and Geralt hisses, sharply, as Jaskier fondles his half-hard cock. The touch is muted and the towel isn’t soft, but gods, it feels lovely.

Jaskier stands and smiles, drying Geralt’s chest before moving behind to wipe the water droplets from Geralt’s back. He presses close, till they are touching, and hooks his chin over Geralt’s shoulder like he did in the bathing room. He drops the towel at their feet and brings his hands up, spreading them across Geralt’s stomach.

Geralt looks down and his tongue suddenly feels heavy. He’s a large, muscular man, but Jaskier’s hands make him look small, dainty and delicate, as if he isn’t a warrior.

It awakens something deep and dark and hidden in Geralt’s gut. It has been so long— _so long_ —since he has been made to feel small again. And Jaskier does it so easy, with no words, as if it’s as simple as breathing.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says just to say his name. Against his neck, where Jaskier has pressed his face, he feels Jaskier’s smile.

“Lie on the bed, my dear,” he orders, softly, and Geralt goes, climbing onto the bed and laying back in the thick furs and blankets. Jaskier is no longer in his sight, but he hears his movements enough, knows that he is heading toward the table of perfumes and oils. “What scent of oil would you prefer, dear heart? I have lavender, eucalyptus, chamomile, apple, and vanilla. My favorite is eucalyptus.”

Geralt’s mouth twitches into a grin. “Chamomile,” he answers.

“You fiend,” Jaskier says, but it’s all in good fun, and he’s crawling onto the bed a moment later, pressing the oil into the pillow next to Geralt’s head. His fingers trace the line of Geralt’s brow, along the bridge of his nose, against the corner of his parted lips. “May I kiss you?”

Geralt swallows. “You want to?”

“Yes. I want to do everything to you.” He cradles Geralt’s face, and Geralt is happy to feel that he _fits_ in the palm of Jaskier’s hand, as if this is where he has always been meant to be, held by a god he has been seeking for a century. “You have the most kissable mouth I’ve ever seen.”

Speechless, mildly horrified that he won’t meet the hidden expectations he’s sure have been set for him, Geralt nods, shakily, and leans upward to meet Jaskier’s mouth. His lips are soft and warm, dry; the touch is chaste at first, a pressure like that of a butterfly’s wings against skin, and then Jaskier tilts his head, slots his nose against Geralt’s, and kisses Geralt completely, deeply.

The slick slide of Jaskier’s tongue against his has Geralt’s breath catching and his hands gripping the sheets till his fingers ache, needing to be grounded but too afraid to be witnessed just yet. Jaskier’s hands move from his cheeks, slowly, and tickle across his throat, shoulders, collarbone. His touch is reverent, almost.

Geralt turns his head away. “You don’t have to be nice to me,” he says, pulling in air as quickly as he can. He doesn’t meet Jaskier’s questioning, open gaze. “I’m going to fuck you either way.”

Jaskier smiles, big and broad and impossibly bright. “It’s cute that you think you’re the one that’s going to be doing the fucking.” He finds Geralt’s lips once more, kissing him soundly, invading all of Geralt’s senses till he knows nothing except desire and want and yielding vulnerability. “Did you ever think that I’m nice to you because I wish to be?”

“I’m a witcher.”

Jaskier kisses Geralt’s nose. “Everybody deserves kindness, Geralt, no matter what or who they are.” He drags his fingertips across the skin of Geralt’s chest and doesn’t flinch when all he surely feels is soft scar tissue. “I would like to give that to you, if you’ll let me.”

“Why?”

“I want to.” He says it like it’s easy—like it’s so easy. “Isn’t that enough?”

Geralt draws Jaskier into another kiss; he sucks Jaskier’s tongue, swallows the whimpered sighs that fall from Jaskier’s mouth into his and lets his chest fill, and fill, and fill. “I’ve never met anyone like you,” he says, ghost-soft, against Jaskier’s lips.

Jaskier grins. “I’m not surprised.” He maneuvers, straddling Geralt’s hips. He finds the vile of oil and holds it in his palm, smiling like he has never seen anything like Geralt before. “May I touch you?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier makes a noise and pulls the cork on the oil, pouring a generous amount along the contours of Geralt’s torso. His hands splay across Geralt’s chest, wide and big; Geralt is mesmerized more by the movement of Jaskier’s hands, as large as they are, even on the expanse of his body, than he is by the feeling of having his sore, aching muscles massaged and worked.

He indulges the relaxation for a moment, shutting his eyes as tension he wasn’t aware he was holding bleeds from his shoulders. Jaskier’s hands are magic—Jaskier is magic, undeniably so, and Geralt feels as if he’s floating, carried on a current toward a paradise he hasn’t experienced before.

Jaskier’s hands feel so lovely on his body. He is rough and thorough; he knows when to press, hard, and when to ghost his fingertips across knots. It’s delicious, and the litany of groans and punched out whimpers fill the air till it’s almost tangible. 

“You are stunning.”

Geralt huffs. “I’m covered in scars.”

Jaskier kisses Geralt’s chin. “You are covered in stories,” he decides, reaching his fingers out to trace the tips along a scar that curls along Geralt’s clavicle. “I would love to hear them.”

“Some other time.” Geralt tugs Jaskier into a kiss by the collar of his doublet. It tastes bloody and sharp, and Geralt wishes he could be soft. “Get naked.”

Jaskier laughs against Geralt’s lips and slows the kiss into one of easy, tender affection. “Slow down, sweetheart.” He leans away, just a bit, to meet Geralt’s eyes. “We’re in no hurry, darling. Let me kiss you some more.”

Geralt tilts his face upward; Jaskier kisses him thoroughly, soundly, as Geralt’s fingers tug and pull at buttons and strings, divesting Jaskier of his doublet, chemise, and breeches. He’s left bare, finally, and Geralt moans like a whore when his fingers come in contact with a hot, hairy chest. He tangles his fingers in Jaskier’s chest hair and pulls, hard, until Jaskier’s bare body is laying atop his.

Skin to skin, chest to chest, Geralt can hardly think. His hands travel, still, and map the contours of Jaskier’s body: the musculature of his thighs, the swell of his ass, the dip of his spine, the flare of his hips, the breadth of his shoulders.

Jaskier mewls and moves into Geralt’s touch, insistent and demanding. Geralt finds Jaskier’s ass with his hands once more and grips, and pulls Jaskier down; their hard cocks meet and slide, and Geralt gasps, thrusting up to follow that contact.

Jaskier slips away and to the side, shoving his face in Geralt’s throat to catch his breath. Greedy, Geralt’s eyes follow the path of his hands, and he finds Jaskier’s cock—fat, hard, weeping at the tip. A perfect fit.

Geralt’s mouth waters and he swallows that spit before he begins to drool. “I want to suck you.”

Jaskier laughs into Geralt’s throat and caresses Geralt’s cheek. “Get on your knees, then.”

Geralt hurries to move out from beneath Jaskier and onto the floor, a position he’s not been in for years; the wooden tiles are cold on his knees but he appreciates the chill as it cools off his heated body. Jaskier is lazy as he comes to stand, stretching and showing off the curves and shadows of his body.

His cock is pretty, pink and wet and fat—the prettiest Geralt’s ever seen, and there’s been a lot. Geralt’s a bit of a whore for a good time.

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes on the tip, delighting in the shiver that wrecks Jaskier’s body. He grips the base, charmed to realize that his fingers barely meet, and licks the head. It’s sour and bitter, like magic, but with an undercurrent of something impossibly _yellow_ that has him diving in for more.

He gets his mouth around the head and suckles, wetting it. He slips lower, swirling his tongue, gathering spit, until it’s in the back of his throat and he’s choking, and his eyes are stinging and his throat is seizing, but it’s wonderful, it’s a dream, it’s freeing, on his knees with a cock in his mouth, and when Jaskier fists his hair in a knot he moans so loud it nearly shakes the glass of the windows.

Geralt leans back, slowly, pointing his tongue into the slit for the sharpest taste.

“Geralt, my darling—”

“Feed yourself to me,” Geralt interrupts, blinking through the few scattered tears that have fallen from his eyes.

Jaskier trembles, wide-eyed, and nods. “Okay, sweetheart.”

Geralt opens his mouth and flattens his tongue; Jaskier fists the base of his cock and gives all of it to Geralt, inch by inch, until he is inside as far as he can be, down Geralt’s throat, which is just lovely, a dream. Geralt closes his eyes, entirely too unsettled by Jaskier’s adoring gaze, and hums, and swallows, and feels immensely proud at the quiver of Jaskier’s body, at the noise that leaves Jaskier’s lips.

He’s so _good_ at sucking cock. He gets it wet with his spit so it fits snugly deep in his throat, and then he swallows and moans, and hums, and gags himself, slurping at the flavor till his stomach is full of the cum he’s eaten.

Jaskier hisses and wrenches Geralt’s hair on a particular hard swallow.

Geralt beams. He’s disturbed the quiet confidence of the man before him. He feels now, suddenly, as if he could fight all the gods and win.

He swallows once more before shifting away; his spit gathers and globs, and he lets it drool from his mouth, spreading it with one hand while he nurses the head. Jaskier puts both hands in Geralt’s hair and pulls, just a bit, and Geralt follows where he’s beckoned.

He sucks Jaskier’s cock for an indiscernible amount of time. Like this, on his knees with tears in his eyes and his spit dripping on his tits, mixed with Jaskier’s precum, he feels—he _feels_ everything. And it’s lovely, so lovely. He wishes he could be down on his knees like this forever.

Jaskier cradles Geralt’s face in his hands as he pulls himself free. “You suck cock like a dream, darling,” he praises, and the words wash over Geralt like a sort of baptism, “but I am old and I could teach you so many things.”

Geralt kisses Jaskier, shoves his tongue in Jaskier’s mouth so he can have their combined taste on back of his teeth. “Teach me, then.”

Jaskier sighs, exultingly. “Come with me.” He caresses Geralt’s face, unafraid of the scars on his skin. “Lay down, my darling.”

Enthusiastic, Geralt does as he’s told once more, sprawling on the bed and spreading his legs so Jaskier may fit between them. Jaskier gets on his knees between Geralt’s legs and smiles, and takes hold of Geralt’s cock, so hard it burns—and then, wildly abrupt, there are tentacle-like appendages stretching from the small of Jaskier’s back, so many of them, such an iridescent yellow they’re nearly glowing.

One of them snakes down and strokes Geralt’s brow. It’s warm and tangible, made of magic by the scent. The others move, too, and pet his thighs, his legs, his waist and hips and stomach and cock, swirling the link and playing in the wetness at the head.

Oh. _Oh,_ Jaskier means to fuck him with these magical tentacles. Of course.

Geralt’s eyes roll back in his head. “Oh, fuck,” he says, and his dick twitches at the thought.

Jaskier draws in a breath. “I felt that,” he acknowledges, stripping Geralt’s cock, once, before letting go and allowing his tentacles to take the place of his hand.

Geralt squirms, hesitant and primitively curious. “Does this happen every time?”

“No.” Jaskier’s fingers, calloused from the strings of his lute, tickle across Geralt’s tummy, following the trail of his tentacles. “It’s only magic. It comes and goes as I please.”

Geralt nods. He reaches his hand out and watches as one swirls around his wrist, moving to his fingers. It’s warm, like a body; it glimmers faintly, like shady sunshine.

“I want them in me.”

“How many?”

Geralt tilts his chin upward, defiant. “As many that’ll fit.”

Jaskier grin is almost devilish. “You want to be full, darling? Is that it?” His words make Geralt thrust absently, into the warm sheath one of his tentacles have made. “I can stuff you so full with my magic that your stomach will become fat with it.”

He pushes down on Geralt’s stomach, rather firmly, and Geralt says, “Fuck,” like the word has been sucked out before he could stop it.

“Do you want that?”

“You talk too much,” Geralt grunts. “What do you think?”

“I think you should use your words better, darling,” Jaskier tuts. 

Geralt swallows. “I want it.”

Jaskier smiles. “Me too,” he says, lovingly, and touches Geralt’s face with his fingertips, with his magical tentacles. “My magic matches your eyes.” He leans closer, pressing his hand on Geralt’s chest for balance. “Hmm. Not quite, I think. My magic is like daffodils. Your eyes are brighter, like the sun almost. Remarkable.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says his name like a prayer. There’s a necklace hanging from Jaskier’s neck on a leather chord that he’s noticing now for the first time; Geralt grabs it and pulls him down for a kiss.

He’ll say Jaskier’s name a hundred times, a thousand times—it doesn’t matter. He has never met anyone like Jaskier before; he knows no words to use that can even begin to describe the man on his chest.

“Give me a word, Geralt,” Jaskier says between their mouths. “Something simple, that you’ll remember easily if it gets to be too much. Mine is lute.”

There is no hesitation. “Yellow.”

Jaskier huffs. “Like your eyes.”

“No.” Geralt shakes his head, curls his arms around Jaskier’s neck so he can hold him as he kisses him again and again, devouring that sweet taste. “Like your magic.”

Jaskier melts, almost, and kisses Geralt’s face a dozen times before he shifts back and smiles. “You’re adorable,” he declares like it’s law.

Geralt burns and blushes. He shifts, uncomfortable with how much he is basking in Jaskier’s attention, and gives Jaskier the best smile he can muster. Jaskier must see something in it that nobody else can because he matches it with one of his own.

He puts his hands on the inside of Geralt’s thighs and pushes them open impossibly further. “Hold yourself open just like that, dear heart,” Jaskier says, reaching for a pile of fur. “Let’s lift your hips.”

Geralt plants his feet and lifts, ignoring the faint burn in his thighs, and settles comfortably on the furs Jaskier’s shoved under his hips. Jaskier’s hands swim across his chest, but the tentacles move quickly, gathering the vile of oil next to Geralt’s head and undoing the cork. Oil spills, permeating the air, and Geralt has a moment of coherent thought before there is a slickness sliding between his ass cheeks.

“Oh,” he says, startled. He accepts the touch a half a moment later and grins as the other tentacles caress his cheeks, his shoulders, chest and tits and stomach and hips and cock and balls, squeezing and pinching and cradling. “You feel so good.”

“Yeah?” The tentacle between Geralt’s cheeks prods at his hole; it’s warm, oily, insistent, and slips inside easily, spreading Geralt open like it belongs. “I’m going to give you everything you want.”

Geralt nods because he believes every word Jaskier says.

The tentacle inside him moves in, in; it starts small and swells the further it goes, grazing near that spot inside of him that makes him burn from the inside out. It’s good, so good, everything Geralt expected and more, but it isn’t enough.

He can have everything—Jaskier promised him _everything_. And, by the gods, he wants it now. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasps. “Jaskier, please.”

“Of course, my dear.”

The tentacle inside of him retreats indolently; Geralt whines low in his throat, but before he can make a demand it’s back with another, and then two other tentacles breaching him, wet and sticky, and he’s keening, half from the pressure of being split apart and half from the abrupt clasp on his cock.

Surprised, Geralt leans up on his elbows and watches, bewitched, as Jaskier fists his cock in his big hand, laden with golden rings; he tugs up, tugs down, and then there’s a tentacle tickling the head, smaller than the ones shoved into his hole but just as wet, just as adamant as it slicks his slit and begins to push inside.

Geralt drops his head back on the pillows and breathes.

At first it stings, the weight in his slit, and then it gives way to pressure, pleasure, and he shivers and cries out. It’s a new sensation—having something penetrate the length of his cock—but it’s nice, especially when Jaskier chuckles and squeezes the shaft, just a bit, just enough for Geralt to feel every inch of the tentacle inside where it isn’t supposed to be.

“How does it feel, Geralt?” Jaskier sounds far-away. “Am I filling you up like you want?”

Geralt nods and turns his head to the side. His mouth opens and he wants to say something, he desperately does, but everything is taking his breath away and he can’t think, can’t even fathom the idea of formulating a thought that doesn’t revolve around the way Jaskier is stuffing him fat with his tentacles.

“Use your words, dear.” Jaskier’s gripping his chin and turning his face so their eyes meet. What he sees in Jaskier’s gaze makes him seize and shiver, closer to coming than he first thought. “I want to hear you speak.”

Geralt groans. “Fuck, Jask, _fuck,_ ” he bites out, clenching on the tentacles in his ass, spreading him, _spreading him_ , and fucking up into the one shoved in his slit, finding an unsteady rhythm that makes him breathless. “You’re so good—fillin’ me up so good. Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“Look at your stomach, Geralt. Look how full of me you are.”

Geralt rises and looks down. He sees a telltale bulge in his stomach, just beneath his bellybutton; its height recedes as the tentacles retreat, mounting as he’s filled again, and, fuck, _fuck_ , Geralt has fucked many people, many monsters, but he has never been this full before, so stuffed he may burst at the seams any moment. He can feel Jaskier in his throat, gagging him as if he’s got a cock in his mouth. He feels rearranged, inside and out.

“Talk to me, Geralt.” The touch on Geralt’s face is fleeting, tender. “Tell me what’s going through your mind.”

“Jaskier,” he says, because that’s it, and then, a hundred times again, “Jaskier, Jaskier, _Jaskier_.”

He keeps the invocation going even as Jaskier adjusts and begins to fuck his tentacles inside in earnest, adding another just to massage Geralt’s prostate; heat pools in the pit of his distended stomach, and Jaskier pushes his weight down until Geralt can feel how full he truly is, see how full he truly is in the bulge of his belly, and then he’s coming unexpectedly.

He shouts, and Jaskier covers his mouth with his own, and then he shouts into the kiss and clutches at Jaskier’s shoulders for a tether lest he fly away. He feels full and empty all at once, and it is absolutely divine.

Jaskier parts their lips and allows Geralt a moment to pull in lungfuls of breath. He’s gasping, and the aftershocks of his orgasm are still vibrating his body and he is shaking. Jaskier gathers him up in his arms and holds him close to his chest; stunned, Geralt finds Jaskier’s heart and focuses on it for several long moments.

“Are you okay?” Jaskier asks, somewhat worried.

Geralt nods, twining his arms around Jaskier’s waist and pulling him close. “‘M good,” he slurs, clears his throat. “I’m fine.”

Jaskier hums. “Would you like to continue?”

“Yes.”

The first orgasm takes the edge off; he’s still hard, and his balls are still heavy, and he can go for a few more times before he struggles to keep up. He thinks Jaskier knows this already, though, so he doesn’t say anything at all.

“I’m glad.” Jaskier presses a kiss to Geralt’s temple. “Do you remember your word?”

“Yellow.”

“Good. You’re so good.” Jaskier kisses Geralt’s face again, this time on his forehead. The praise, the words of affirmation are almost as profound as his orgasm. “Are you ready?”

Geralt says, “Yes, Jaskier,” and presses a kiss to Jaskier’s chin as he pulls back and settles against the furs once more.

Jaskier grins and moves. He knee-walks up, till he’s straddling Geralt’s hips above his cock; he finds Geralt’s length, holds it steady, and begins to sink down.

“What are you—” Geralt begins, but he’s cut off rather quickly when he feels the tight heat of Jaskier’s body engulfing his cock. The tentacles inside him flex and swell, a reminder. “Were you opening yourself with your tentacles?”

Jaskier gasps. “Yes,” he answers, wild-eyed, searching and grabbing for Geralt’s hands to ground him as his ass becomes flush with the cradle of Geralt’s hips. “Does that excite you, my dear?”

“Fuck.” Geralt tosses his head back and curls his toes as Jaskier lifts up and drops back down once, twice, plopping with a distinct sound of skin on skin. “Fuck, yes, it does.”

The thought of Jaskier being quiet in his pleasure while using one of his own tentacles to open himself as he fucks Geralt is humbling, kind of, because Jaskier is the kind of person to put the gratification of his partner above his own and gods, that shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but when you’re Geralt—when you are used to the selfishness of those who use your body for their gain, it is groundbreaking.

“Jaskier.” Geralt tugs his hands free and cups Jaskier’s face in his hands. He pulls Jaskier in for a kiss as he plants his feet, fucks his hips upward into Jaskier’s body; the hair on Jaskier’s chest chafes Geralt’s skin but it’s good, it’s so good, something Geralt wishes he could have forever and ever as he eats the noise that fall from Jaskier’s mouth.

He drives Jaskier to an orgasm like this, fucking into him inhumanly quick. Jaskier paints their chests, and clenches and shivers, moaning deeper than he’s ever spoken. He laps at Geralt’s mouth for a few seconds before leaning away. He shifts, looks at Geralt’s face as he begins to move the tentacles that are still stuffed inside him, and oh, _oh_ , it’s far from over.

“Come as many times as you want, my dear,” Jaskier says, and then—and _then_.

The tentacles inside of Geralt begin to thrust with the same rhythm of Jaskier’s little grinds on his lap. He’s being filled and filling; it’s a shock to his system and he cries out as one tentacle massages boldly against his prostate with a promise to send him to a new reality while the others continue to work at him steadily, unwaveringly.

His eyes flutter, but he forces them open, wanting to see Jaskier’s face, wanting to watch the way Jaskier’s pleasure shines and plays in the glow of his eyes. Geralt opens his mouth to speak, to say something about how pretty Jaskier looks like this, sitting on his cock or something like that, something reverent, but there’s suddenly another tentacle teasing at his lips, and he forces his jaw wider, suckling the dusty-tasting thing as it lays flat on his tongue.

He shuts his eyes and sucks the thing, hard. It’s odd in his mouth; odd, but not unwanted, and this night has been so full of wonders that he trusts Jaskier not to lead him astray.

He raises his hands to do something, anything, but two tentacles are wrapping around either wrist and pushing back, holding him down. Curious, he tests the hold and is thrilled when he finds that it’ll take some work on his end to actually break the grip.

Geralt’s eyes widen. Jaskier looks down at him, and smiles, and the tentacles inside him reach deeper, somehow, and a second orgasm lights him up from the inside out, filling Jaskier up so good a filthy squelching noise sounds in the atmosphere as Jaskier continues to ride him.

Jaskier’s smile never falters as he leans down and noses at Geralt’s jaw, nipping at the skin and retracting the tentacle from Geralt’s mouth. “You’re lovely like this,” he says the words into Geralt’s flesh and they sink deep, into the caverns of his soul.

Geralt lets loose a mortified whimper and tugs at the appendages holding him down; he’s let go, thankfully, and he wraps his arms around the expanse of Jaskier’s broad back. “Jaskier,” he breathes, mind gone. The only thing he knows is the man on his chest and the sensation he’s being awarded. “ _Jaskier_.” He fists one hand in Jaskier’s hair, grip strong but not pulling, just holding on.

“I’ve got you, my dear.” Jaskier kisses the hollow of his throat. “I’m here, Geralt. I’ll stay with you, I’ve got you, dear heart.”

He sets up a steady rhythm once more, moving atop Geralt and inside Geralt. He’s on the verge of oversensitivity—he’s full and fragile, edging out over a precarious precipice. If he falls over the brink, he will never return.

Jaskier’s lips finds his and he cries into Jaskier’s mouth; their tongues meet and curl, and their tastes mingle, and it’s so much, the end of it all, and when Geralt comes for the third time, mostly dry, his entire body goes absolutely still. He pulls his mouth from Jaskier’s, presses his forehead to Jaskier’s, shuts his eyes, and breathes deeply, evenly, until the tension breaks and he relaxes with a softening sigh.

The tentacles inside him disappear, slowly, allowing him time to acclimate to the sudden emptiness. He appreciates that care so, so much.

He opens his eyes and finds Jaskier staring down at him in awe. It makes him blush. “Jaskier?”

Jaskier blinks. “Oh.”

Geralt smiles, teeth and all. “You haven’t finished,” he notices, eyes drifting to Jaskier’s cock. He’s still hard, fat and wet and red; he puts one hand on the base, the other on Jaskier’s hips, and urges him to move, to find his orgasm. “C’mon, Jask. Just let it go.”

“ _Geralt_.”

“I know, I know,” Geralt babbles, hoping his voice is as pleasant for Jaskier as Jaskier’s is for him. “You’ve done me so good, Jask, and now it’s your turn. Take what you need.”

Jaskier cries out. He shuffles, adjusts, and curls himself up on Geralt’s chest; his face is pressed into Geralt’s throat and his hair is filling Geralt’s mouth but that’s okay, it’ll be fine, and he offers Jaskier his body to use even as it’s borderline painful, like sharp ice prickling beneath his skin, and he doesn’t know how much more he can take until there’s a hitch in Jaskier’s breath and a warmth flooding between their chests.

Jaskier comes and _comes_. It seems to last forever; Geralt feels drenched in jizz, soaked in the viscid stuff, and he knows he’s going to be smelling like Jaskier for days.

For several long, hot moments, they stay like that. Geralt’s erection eventually softens, and he slips from Jaskier’s body; the air of the room is slightly cooler than the heat of Jaskier’s ass, but it isn’t unbearable. He thinks, awed, that Jaskier’s using his magic for this, as well, and his heart—what’s left of it—swells in his chest until he nearly chokes.

He moves to the side, taking Jaskier with him and tucking him against the mountain of furs. He attempts to roll away, praying his jelly legs will hold him up, to find a rag to wipe the two of them off, but Jaskier’s hand finds his and their fingers intertwine with little effort.

“Sleep now, my love,” Jaskier says. His eyes, so blue even in the dim candlelight, shimmer. “We’ll clean up later.”

Geralt nods and shuffles closer, gathering Jaskier against his chest. “I’ll want you again in a few hours,” he whispers in the fluff of Jaskier’s hair.

Jaskier laughs lightly. “And you’ll have me, as much as you want.” He presses a kiss to the scarred skin above Geralt’s heart. It burns so good. “But for now you should rest. I’m not going anywhere.”

*

Through the night, they wake up and fuck some more. The tentacles don’t make an appearance, which is for the best, truly, because Geralt isn’t sure if he can take it again so soon.

He’s moved and situated face down, ass up; Jaskier’s balls slap against his thighs as he fucks deep into Geralt’s hole. Geralt’s face is smashed in the furs, and his whining is pitched so high he doesn’t recognize himself, but he doesn’t care because Jaskier laughs like it’s the best thing he’s ever head, even greater than his music. They come, together, and Jaskier licks his spend from Geralt’s hole before they doze once more.

A few hours later, and Geralt is sat in Jaskier’s lap. His hands are braced on Jaskier’s chest for balance, fingers curled in Jaskier’s chest hair, and he’s sucking two of Jaskier’s fingers in his mouth as he bounces on Jaskier’s cock. Geralt throws his head back and moans when he comes, and Jaskier laughs as he stuffs the come leaking from Geralt’s hole back inside.

Geralt has Jaskier the next time, held up against the wall. They went to wash in the tub, quickly, but Jaskier is stunning, alluring, and Geralt was pushing Jaskier against the wall, slicking himself with his spit and feeding his cock inside Jaskier. Jaskier claws at the skin on Geralt’s back, adding tiny scars to the collection already there; Geralt has Jaskier come on his dick twice before he lets himself go, filling him up in return.

Jaskier has him again, for the last time, in the blue light of the false dawn when the candles have burned low and they are nothing more than blobs of shadows in the dark. They’re on their sides; Jaskier keeps Geralt’s leg pulled up with one of his hands while the other is tucked beneath Geralt’s head. Their fingers are laced together.

He fucks his cock into Geralt’s wet hole slowly, easily, and when he’s all the way inside he doesn’t pull out again. He shifts his hips, drags his cock in increment movements against Geralt’s prostate; their mouths are pressed together, more for sharing one another’s breath than kissing as Jaskier finds his slow, slow rhythm.

They move together. Jaskier’s hairy chest rubs against Geralt’s back, a stimulating touch Geralt never knew he would love. Their legs entwine, and their sweat mingles, and Jaskier kisses Geralt steadily, unhurriedly, dipping his tongue into Geralt’s mouth to gather his taste when it begins to fade.

Geralt can’t do anything. Like this, held by Jaskier’s body and pinned to the furs, Geralt can’t do anything but take it. And take it, and take it, whatever Jaskier wants to give him.

Jaskier fucks Geralt to an orgasm once, twice, three times, and on the fourth time Geralt is whining from oversensitivity, fisting his cock with one hand while the other is tangled in Jaskier’s hair, keeping him close.

He never knew it could be like this. He doesn’t know how he’s going to move on.

They sleep, wrapped around one another so tight it feels almost as if their souls are mingling in the little space that’s left between their bodies.

*

When Geralt awakens, the sun is high in the sky and white-yellow light is shining into the room through the windows. He blinks a few times, allowing himself a moment to orient himself before he begins to formulate a plan for the day.

It hurts in the meat of his heart to extract himself from Jaskier’s arms and leave his warmth behind, but he does so with dawdling movements as to not disturb the man. In his sleep, he looks ethereal, angelic; Geralt wishes he could spend the day learning every curve and contour of Jaskier, body and soul, but he can’t.

There’s no words to describe the night he spent with Jaskier, and he’ll never forget it for as long as he lives, but it’s over and it’s time for him to move on now. He has places to be, a word to keep, and he can’t dally around much longer.

He finds his clothing in the bathing room, washed and dried, and tugs it on as fast as he can. His cotton shirt smells like Jaskier—like mint and vanilla. His armor is clean, shined and oiled, and he does the latches up with shaking fingers.

It isn’t far to the exit, but he takes his time, memorizing everything he can before he has to leave. This place is lived in, full of figurines and trinkets and small instruments and articles and a swirl of Jaskier’s scents. It’s a home, like his in the mountains, and he can’t ask Jaskier to leave it in favor of following him.

The path is no place for someone like Jaskier. He’s a wonder, the closest thing to a god Geralt has ever met, and he deserves a better life than the one Geralt could give him.

He finds Roach in the stables around back. She’s well-fed and rested; he brushes her down before saddling her up, a selfish reason to stay in Jaskier’s territory for a few more precious moments. She gives him a look, one that only she can muster, and he’s sure that she would have a few words to say if she could speak. He’s never been more thankful that she can’t.

He brings her around the front of the house, giving it one last look before he pivots on his heel and begins to lead Roach toward the small, well-worn path that leads back into town. He takes a deep breath, gathering the faint tendrils of Jaskier’s scent, and begins his journey.

“One moment, dear, I’m almost ready!”

Confused, Geralt stops Roach and turns around. “Jaskier?” he calls, but there’s no answer.

A night-sky-colored gelding rounds the corner of the house and comes to stand beside Geralt, proud and large. The gelding is saddled with a bag and lute case hanging off either side. He’s nervous, just a bit, but when he reaches up to pet the horse his touch is received with gratitude, as odd as this entire situation is.

Roach makes a noise, adding her opinion to the mess Geralt’s got himself in to this time.

Geralt side-eyes her. “I didn’t ask.”

She nudges him with her muzzle in reply.

A moment later, Jaskier is bounding out the door and down the stone steps. He’s wearing warm clothing beneath a fur-lined cloak; the hood is pulled atop his head and he’s grinning wildly as he takes Geralt in his arms and kisses him soundly. Geralt is so flabbergasted by this turn of events that he simply lets himself be kissed, as if this is something that happens.

When Jaskier pulls himself away from Geralt’s mouth he’s grinning. “We can go now,” he says, as if it was planned for him to travel with Geralt all along.

Geralt coughs. “Jaskier, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” He takes the reins of the black gelding and pets the underside of his jowls fondly. “I’m coming along with you, of course.”

Geralt still doesn’t understand. There’s no way Jaskier means to follow him on the path. To see him off along his way, perhaps, but still, that’s something nobody Geralt has slept with in all his years has done before.

“But your house is here.”

“And it will be here when I return, waiting for me,” Jaskier replies. He reaches for Geralt and Geralt gives him his hand reflexively. “Unlike you, my dear.”

Oh. _Oh_ , this is Jaskier—he’s a wonderful mix of beautiful, ancient magic and what he does hardly makes a lick of sense. Geralt shouldn’t be as surprised as he is to know that Jaskier, free and unbound, wants to walk alongside him.

“Are you sure?” He tugs his hand free from Jaskier’s so he may hold Jaskier’s face in both of his palms. His eyes are as endless as the sky above. “I need you to be absolutely sure, Jask.”

Jaskier nods, smiling, and curls his fingers around Geralt’s wrists. “I’m sure, dear heart,” he says, kissing Geralt once more, with feeling. It tastes pure, like a promise. “Now let’s go, shall we? Winter is coming quickly, and we’ve got a lot of ground to cover before we head up to your home, I believe.”

They part, but they don’t stray far from one another’s side as they gather the reins of their horses and begin to follow the small path. Geralt thinks that taking Jaskier to Kaer Morhen may not be the smartest thing he’s ever done, but he’s never claimed to be one blessed with common sense.

Besides, his brothers are going to love Jaskier. And Ciri, too. She’ll love Jaskier, too.

Jaskier slips his hand into Geralt’s, lacing their fingers and leaning into his side. Geralt lets it happen, the gentleness of a touch for nothing but closeness, and pretends he doesn’t know why his chest expands and his heart warms. He knows. And the way Jaskier smiles over at him makes him think Jaskier knows, too.

**Author's Note:**

> i may or may not have accidentally set this up for a series of sorts. perhaps we'll see. 
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/geraskefers)


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